


Heaven and Hell

by WritinRedhead



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff because who deserves it if not them, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritinRedhead/pseuds/WritinRedhead
Summary: Goodnight’s perspective of the first fight in Rose Creek.And of what comes after the second.-He never considered himself a man of great godliness. Not really. Although it's not something looked kindly upon in the god-fearing South, he believes in neither heaven nor hell. If he ever did, then this belief is now buried in a tattered cloth, dyed blood-red and midnight-blue, stars the colour of bones running across. But there's two things Goodnight Robicheaux knows for certain...





	Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure about posting this, it’s so different from my usual style, but I'm horribly stuck on my Faraday/Vasquez fic and it was either writing this or banging my head on the keyboard... Hope it's still alright. 
> 
> Also, I never wrote in present tense before, so please don’t hesitate to tell me if I messed up somewhere.

_What does your own personal hell look like?_

_How about your own personal heaven?_

 

He never considered himself a man of great godliness. Not really. Although it's not something looked kindly upon in the god-fearing South, he believes in neither heaven nor hell. If he ever did, then this belief is now buried in a tattered cloth, dyed blood-red and midnight-blue, stars the colour of bones running across. But there's two things Goodnight Robicheaux knows for certain.

He knows how his own personal hell looks like.

Exactly like this.

There's noise all around. Explosions. The ringing of shots. Gunfire. He's turning and turning, but there's no way out. It is enveloping him. He can't – he can't think clear. He's trying – but… he just _can't_. He's blinking rapidly. Maybe it'll help him focus. Make him function again. Because he has to. Has to function. _NOW_. An eerie hiss escapes his throat.

It doesn't. Doesn't help.

When he opens his eyes again, he's looking over the iron sights of his rifle. But he can't make out the target. He squints. Everything is blurred. He's not sure if it is just in his mind, this cursed haze obscuring his vision, rising up from memories of a war long since passed – or if it is the gun smoke, fresh and new, caused by a battle anchored in the present.

" _Take the shot. Take that shot. Take the damn shot!"_

The voice in his ear makes him flinch. Faraday, he recognizes dimly. He feels his finger curling around the trigger. All he has to do is pull it towards him. He doesn't understand why his muscles won't obey. It's not that hard – can't be – because he's done it before. A motion that used to be near effortless. But impossible now. He can't do it. He's incapable. Useless.

The rifle feels too heavy and it's pulling him down. And down… He looks up shortly, wanting to say something, but the words going through his mind are all one jumbled mess, not making any sense – not even to him. Why did he even want to say them, then? He can't remember.

" _Give me that."_

Then the dead weight is suddenly gone. And he's grateful for that, immensely. The rifle is taken from his hands by – he turns around – Billy.

" _It's jammed."_

Good… Billy is here. He feels like he's at least able to breathe again. Although he still can't think straight.

It takes a couple of minutes – Or hours, _hell_ , he ain't sure. Could be either – until the thick haze is dissipating. Slowly. But it's going away – finally. Just like the ringing in his ears.

" _Hey."_

There is a nudge on his arm. It's Billy, walking beside him, with his rifle held out to him. The dark eyes are locked on him. They seem concerned – worried, and he despises himself for being the one to put this troubled expression in them.

So he steels his nerves, stands a bit straighter and reaches out his hand to take the it back. But the sleeve rides up as he does, and something bright catches his attention. He looks down on himself – The skin is coloured carmine.

 _No…_ How can that be? He hasn't – didn't –

Must have been when… When he'd confirmed it. The hit.

When he'd made his way to the lifeless body on the ground and turned it around. Seen the open medallion atop the stained union garb. A woman and two small children staring up at him. He pulled his hand back as if burnt. There's blood on his palm, smeared down over his forearm. Just like now.

Except that's not now. That was sixteen years ago.

 _Damn_. He's slipping.

Everyone around him is talking. He tries to concentrate on what they're saying. The childish to-and-fro of their Mexican and Irish companions doesn't really interest him, but it helps bring his mind back to the present.

Then Sam starts to speak, and before the others fall quiet, listening to his words directed at the man on the ground, one voice cuts through it all.

" _You alright?"_

And he nods. Because he's decided, he'll be strong. He'll see this through. _They_ 'll see this through. It's gonna be alright.

It physically hurts to lie to Billy. Even with just a gesture.

Though not nearly as much as knowing Billy doesn't believe him. Not one bit.

 

***

 

But he's also come to know how his own personal heaven looks like.

Exactly like this.

He's probably dead.

Has to be. What other explanation is there, for he's not woken by the dark call of his feathered nightmare but the clear voice of a songbird. At first, he doesn't dare open his eyes, afraid it really is nothing more than his subconscious trying to make the transition easier.

But then he feels it. The warmth. And something stirring on his right. No… that's definitely _someone_ stirring next to him. Despite any previous hesitation, his eyes fly open and he sits up. Well, tries to sit up.

 _What…?_ A tightly bound bandage, all over his torso, hinders him. Then the pain catches up and his whole body aches. Except for his arms – they're weirdly powerless when he uses them to carefully push himself upright. As if he hasn't used them for quite some time. Though they still work.

For the first time, he can take in his surroundings. He's in a bed. A blanket over his legs. In a small room brightened by the morning light.

Soft breathing reminds him of what he's wanted to check.

He turns his head and – too bad, he's gotta be dead, after all. Because why else would there be this godsend being at his side? Face framed by a curtain of black silk hanging down and the stoic expression relaxed by sleep, looking so very different from the poorly sketched warrant picture he's drawn from his pocket all those years ago.

_Billy._

This sparks a whole array of thoughts in his afore numbed mind. What they have in common is that all of them seem to circle around the key points of _He's alive – I'm alive – We're alive._

It takes all his strength to reach over and touch his face. It is worth it. His palm fits perfectly to the curve of his cheek. Just like it has before. He smiles to himself and lets his fingers brush over the smooth skin like they want to. This feels _right_.

Lids flutter open and two ebony eyes search his. There's surprise in them. And umpteen other emotions, contrary to what little movement he usually lets show. But most of all… there's relief.

" _Goody… You're awake."_

He gives him a tentative smile and wonders why Billy seems so overwhelmed. This is not like him.

" _How…"_ He begins to speak, but it sounds hoarse and the words break off, his throat too dry to say any more right now.

" _Long?"_ Billy finishes for him, and he nods. Billy understands, Billy always understands. _"Nearly three weeks. Hit your head. Bad. I thought you… maybe you wouldn't…"_

Billy trails off, and his hand stills, then lowers as the meaning of it sinks in. The waiting must have been worse this time – Holding out once more with nothing to do and no guarantee he'd come back again. A nightmare that won't go away once dawn breaks. Just his body lying in this room.

Nevertheless – Billy still waited.

" _Thank you, mon cher."_ He hears himself whisper. It scratches in his throat. His voice is not yet there completely – but he has to say it. It's important, more than anything. Because he feels like he can't ever say it enough. _"I love you."_ and _"I'm sorry."_

In response Billy just takes his hand in his and places it back on his cheek. Where it has been and where it belongs. His throat constricts. He's unable to do anything.

He lets himself be pulled into Billy's arms and sinks backwards against the comfort of his chest. The heartbeat then resonating in his own chest is strong and steady. His heart adapts to the set rhythm and the joined drumming works better than any kind of lullaby. He closes his eyes again.

Maybe there is a heaven, after all. Because there's no other way he deserves this man.

 

* * *

 

_fin._


End file.
